


Burgeoning

by BloodylocksBathory



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Image, Body Worship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 23:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19711474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodylocksBathory/pseuds/BloodylocksBathory
Summary: Fitzjames' vanity - and self image - is challenged when his eating habits become a little too indulgent. Crozier responds accordingly.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was already planning this story when I happened across a prompt in the Terror kink meme: "After they are saved one of them (preferably James) gets a bit pudgy. His partner has to reassure him that he is still very attractive and loved."

The first time James Fitzjames noticed, he wondered how he had not done so much earlier.

Lips pursed, he tugged at the material, flexed his stomach, staring all the time, as though he could simply will it untrue, but there was no avoiding the plain reality of his situation. Huffing, he fastened his trousers closed, and he held back a sigh at how snug they were on his form.

He had gained weight.

Not much, not really. But then again, James had strict specifications to the tailoring of his garments, and they were as precise as every inch of his body. His trusted tailor practically had his measurements committed to memory. Even in moments of social duties, appearances, balls, others would speak of him and his personal discipline, and James – always keen in his hearing when it came to the subject of himself – never heard a coarse word regarding his appearance. Whether his clothing would fit or otherwise was never a concern to the Naval Officer. From boyhood onward, he had always kept his physique in ideal condition.

This was not ideal. No matter how little he had gained, he had gained all the same.

Of course, this was Crozier’s fault. James’ thoughts instinctively turned to the numerous evenings where he and Captain Francis Crozier would meet for dinner. At first these casual encounters were instigated by James himself, a ploy to steadily guide the older man to his bed. When that ploy proved successful, Francis took the liberty of inviting his friend for further soirees. As long as their little interludes followed, James was eager.

Perhaps a little too eager…

Breathing deep, he reminded himself that this was but a minor setback. After all, he had not lately been exerting himself through the usual travel his career required, and his lack of occupation in the meantime had made him lethargic and careless. That would not do. What would his mentors and colleagues have thought if they saw this lapse in focus, this idleness?

What would his family have said? 

His father—

Clearing his throat, James continued to dress. He had duties to perform, a ship to arrange for soon departure. He could not misuse his time worrying about an increase of an inch to his waistline. Besides, once he had the remaining items on, no one would know just from a glance. The layers concealed it. But this was only because this slip in self control was minimal. He would have to take up some form of exercise until the date of the new voyage, as well as place some restrictions on his daily nutrition. Which of course meant a little less public dining. Francis would understand. He was well aware that his friend could not bow to his every beck and call…

*

Only an hour had followed when he found himself invited once again to dinner by the good captain, and he cursed himself when he promptly accepted.


	2. 2

2.

James Fitzjames never turned back on a promise, even one as trivial as a friendly invitation to dinner. Though he felt a tiny sting of dread throughout the day for the event, he would not change his mind on attending. Francis would have noticed something was amiss if he did. Thusly, that very evening the Bellows Inn had the pleasure of serving a pair of celebrated maritime officers, with one Captain Francis Crozier and one Captain James Fitzjames consuming food and drink at their leisure. The slight catch was that the latter’s approximation of leisure was markedly different than that of the former.

While James attempted to focus on a responsible pace of eating, Francis spoke in regard to the newest voyage, captained by James himself. Two years had passed since the nightmare that was the Franklin Expedition, and both men, ravaged by the hells faced there, determined enough time and healing had passed. The vessel employed was not old, but had still seen its fair share of incidents and survived time and again to seek its next destination. Appropriately, it had been dubbed the Lazarus.

Though he listened to his friend, replying when he thought appropriate, James could not help the attention he paid his present meal. Were he an authority of exotic cooking, he might have extolled the meal before him, inspired by the foods of East India. The country’s use of spices was novel, perhaps a bit strong, but pleasantly vivid all the same. Such a pity that he would only partake of it this one time, as it was pleasant enough a taste to suggest excessive indulgence. James began to pay less mind to Francis’ chatter and more to compiling a mental list of his potential new diet. Goose was going to have to go, duck as well, and as rude as it would appear, desserts. Unless dessert was in the form of fruit, perhaps that would not be as ruinous to his figure. And then perhaps replace other meals with broth, but keep physical strength in mind, so…

The tinny sound of his fork scraping the flatware caught his attention and when he looked down, he realized with quiet horror that his plate was empty. Francis had gone silent by this time, watching him intently with eyebrows raised.

“I take it you enjoyed that?” he said, gesturing toward the empty plate.

James said nothing, already feeling a warmth blossom in his cheeks. Much like his delayed realization of the fit of his trousers that morning, he realized how much he had eaten only after the fact. As he sat back in his chair to remove the napkin from his lap, he felt just how much he had eaten. Were he unclothed he was certain his stomach would have bowed out from him. His trousers felt strained, alarmingly so, the high waist making the fit all the more tight. How could he have been so thoughtless, so stupid? Good God, how he must have looked, shoving clumps of food into his mouth like a starving reprobate.

He was about to speak when a sudden burp escaped his lips. Stunned, he grabbed his napkin and all but clamped it to his mouth. This time he was ready and the second belch was muffled by silk. He barely looked at Francis, but in the corner of his vision was a smile, as though his friend were viewing a staged comedy.

“Will you be alright?” he asked.

James blushed.

*

The carriage ride back to the Crozier estate was in equal measure uncomfortable and entertaining, the first of which for James and the second for Francis. James felt every bump in the roads despite the relatively smooth ride, and each miniscule jostle had him desperate to hold back every belch. Francis found his friend’s behavior wildly amusing, but he too restrained himself, knowing to laugh would be the ultimate insult.

James groaned in annoyance, glancing out the window. “Have some cobblestones come loose?”

The question was enough to let a chuckle slip from Francis, who coughed in an effort to stifle himself.

“The food tonight was very rich,” he replied. “The spices alone could upset the strongest of stomachs. I’m sure a majority of tonight’s diners will be expressing themselves like hot air balloons.”

James deflected a puff of piquant air with his handkerchief. In this dim light his blush was undetectable, but the glare communicated what the color to his cheeks could not.

“Don’t demean me. Why did you not stop me from making a bloody fool of myself?” He grumbled. “Stuffing myself, behaving like a swine, the least you could have done was…” A belch, his loudest thus far, interrupted him and he held the handkerchief to his mouth as though able to forever banish the distasteful noise within him. If only.

“Pleas don’t worry yourself,” Francis said. “This is but a passing bother.”

James rolled his eyes at him, annoyed. “How so?”

“It would not do to drink on an empty stomach.” He paused, then added with a good-natured smile, “trust me, I know.”

James sighed, returning to staring out the carriage window. They were near the Crozier estate now, and soon would disembark to seek the warmth and familiarity of Francis’ home. Specifically his bedroom, if luck was on James’ side. He wanted nothing more than to sink under the linens and sleep until the next afternoon.

“What if I were to make it up to you?” Francis asked, his voice quieter now. He leaned forward and drifted a hand against one of James’ knees.

James lifted an eyebrow at him, contemplating. He wanted to say no and simply retire for the night. But he knew better than to turn down such an offer from his gracious host.

His mouth twitched into the slightest of smiles, and Francis was close enough to see it.

*

Accepting the offer had been the right decision. Though sluggish from a belly full of food and alcohol, James managed to reach completion not long after Francis, perched upon his trusted friend’s handsome cock. He awkwardly lifted himself off and fell to the mattress like a bundle of driftwood, limbs splayed, wearing only his shirtsleeves. He welcomed a kiss, clumsily returning it as he struggled to keep his eyes open. Finally giving in, he was asleep before Francis could gather him in his arms. Had he not been, he would have hated the other man’s hand resting on his stomach.


	3. 3

James was at a loss. His frustrations had become most taxing, devolving into a vicious circle of turning to food as a curative for his duress, then becoming melancholy at his lack of restraint. So on and so forth. Worse still, those precise measurements in his wardrobe gave such little give that his discomfort at being squeezed into the clothes grew ever worse, and he was beginning to feel like butterfly about to tear loose of its cocoon. Or a sausage.

He reminded himself to add sausages to the ever growing list of forbidden foods.

This was not fair. Two years, two god-awful years had passed since he returned to England a survivor and a hero. The suffering endured in the Arctic Circle, the agony that nearly killed him in the multi-headed form of lead, scurvy, and the ruthless elements, had he overcome all of that only to become this pitiable version of his former self?

He sighed, fidgeting with the buttons of his waistcoat. Their bodies had recovered, and until now James had assumed their minds as well, but he was wrong.

And here he thought this new chapter of his life had been a happy one. Perhaps that was the culprit: happiness was making him fat. But was he truly glad in recent weeks? Two years of drifting about with no endeavors, no true engagements, nothing to do but tell the same stories, glad-hand the same self-important aristocrats, and charm his way to the next occupation. Putting on the charade was so much easier before the Franklin voyage. No matter. Soon he would be sailing again, as a captain no less, and he would easily shed the weight. He just needed something to occupy himself with.

A knock on his bedroom door was followed by a young voice.

“Sir?”

He turned, allowing the housekeeper’s company. “Yes?”

“Captain Crozier has arrived with Mr. Peeves.”

“Yes, of course,” James muttered, waving the woman away and giving his reflection one more glance over before following suit. By the time he reached the parlor, Francis and Peeves were already present, not having bothered to remove their coats. Roland Peeves was a robust solicitor with the profile of a hawk and just as observant an eye. Francis had chosen him himself, and as far as James was concerned, all the better for them. The short man gave a quick salute that went unreturned.

“Mr. FItzjames, sir,” he said, his voice agitated even in pleasant circumstances. “An honor sir.”

“You say that every time, dear boy,” James returned with a smile that he hoped reached his eyes, then looked to Francis. “Are we to head straight out?”

“Yes, James.” Francis had already plucked his friend’s coat from the rack and was handing it to him. “We’ll be discussing the case at dinner.”

James grimaced, but said nothing. He hoped his tension was not evident on the ride.

*

The presence of Mr. Peeves was integral to a plan enacted by Francis less than a year prior, though James was the one to suggest it. On their return home, they lost count on the number of questions they were asked by the admiralty and public alike, but the most frequent was in regards to what went wrong. And people more often than not were less interested in the steam engines, the long winter, or – to James’ vexation – the malfunctioning compasses. They always wanted to know about the sickness: the poisoning, the scurvy, the madness. All of the things by which Her Majesty’s establishment was especially embarrassed. The loss of sanity had been one matter, but not all of it had stemmed from the despair alone. Peeves’ keen eye had been searching until he had amassed page upon page of evidence for the principal reason.

Neither surviving captain could ever fully trust canned provisions ever again, even though in their careers they had no choice.

When tea arrived at their table, all three filled their cups, but at the arrival of cream and sugar, James made no move to indulge in either. Francis took the opportunity to add a cube or two for him, but the younger captain placed a hand over the cup.

“No sugar, thank you.”

Francis’ eyebrows lifted at the decline. “You love tea with sugar,” he automatically replied.

“Not anymore.” James shrugged, but did not look directly as his friend. “Things change.”

Even when dinner arrived, Francis noticed James’ slower pace as he ate, as well as how he cut his meal down the center and consumed only half. He avoided speaking of it, as their time was meant to be spent discussing the details of lead tins, and to bring up peculiar behavior in the presence of others would have been poorly received, especially by someone of James’ character.

On any other night, hell, any other week, James would have been able to pay attention to the dullest of blathering from the grandest bore in the room, but as Peeves prattled on about numbers and names and business exchanges, the voice became a muted blur, the words of which the captain could barely pick up. He was not ashamed to admit (not to himself anyway) that the inevitable confrontation made him nervous. The admiralty was already displeased regarding their substantiation of the cannibalism rumors. Of course he was also sidetracked by his dinner, or rather his avoidance of it. He could tell Francis was noticing something strange about his behavior, and would eventually figure out what was going on. He wondered which disappointment would be the worst: the slip in his personal discipline or the failure to overcome it like a rational, properly raised, human being. James hated the notion of somehow letting him down, his friend, his colleague. His lover.

He tried his best to pay attention, and if not, at least pretend to, giving hums of confirmation at the end of Peeves’ statements. He could always review the notes afterwards. He avoided looking at Francis, who was no doubt watching his odd behavior at any given moment.

The cab ride following their meal was a quiet one once Peeves was dropped off at his street. James expected Francis to ask him what was wrong, but the question never came. The silence was barely a relief, and the return to the Crozier estate barely a place of peace as it once had been. James attempted to read the notes discussed that evening but even in the quiet of Francis’ home, in the comfort of his bed, he found himself unable to focus. Defeated, he placed the pages on a bedside table and felt the mattress dip as Francis climbed in, kissing his companion’s hand. James drew away said hand and caressed his cheek, feeling stubble.

“Not tonight, I’m afraid,” he said. “I am weary now and need sleep.”

Francis’ expression fell, disappointed yes, but also confused. Whatever was bothering his trusted friend, he hoped he would eventually be told.

“As long as you’ll stay,” he replied.

James managed a smile. “As long as you’ll have me.”

*

Both captains were up and about at sunrise, though James had been the first to wake. Francis watched him dress for some time before doing the same, as observing the illustrious Captain James Fitzjames in various states of dress and undress was swiftly becoming his favorite pastime.

“Dinner again tonight?” he offered as James stared coldly in a full length mirror.

“Hm?” James passed his fingers through the tangles of his dark hair and then tugged on the halves of his yet unbuttoned waistcoat. “My apologies, I may dine at home.”

Francis was far from discouraged. Grinning, he came up behind him and nestled his nose into the crook of James’ neck.

“… I could bring you something sweet,” he quietly offered, reaching beyond the other man’s waist, “if you still need the company.”

The hand which flattened against James’ stomach was enough to make the younger captain flinch, which prompted Francis to remove his hand as though his touch had caused serious bodily harm.

“It’s fine,” James replied, once again doing that funny tugging of the vest and finally buttoning it. “I am content to be alone tonight. Besides, I’ve had enough of my share of Peeves’ company for one dinner. And I’ll need to reread his notes.”

Francis considered the answer for a few seconds and forced a smile out of himself. “Yes. Very good.” He did not know what else to say.

The same uncomfortable silence filled the carriage as James was escorted back to his house. Francis watched as James retreated inside without so much as a look back, then sat back in his seat, worrying the upholstery with his fingers. Perhaps he had been mistaken. He had thought their partnership in one another’s bed had escalated to something quite close, but perhaps he had seen something there James had not. If so, it was a pity. Francis could only hope their lovemaking would still continue, even if it were a little more loveless than he would have preferred.

Intimacy or none, he also vowed to find out what was bothering James before the week’s end.


	4. 4

The week was nearly up. The dire situation noticed by Captain Crozier after that awkward morning did little to improve, if at all. James was clearly avoiding him, and upon further musing, had been doing so for several days. He should have realized something was awry when James began wearing a nightshirt to bed every time they shared the space. More troubling still, when the lights were out, Francis would move to embrace him from behind, to which James would draw up a leg to his torso, almost as though drawing away from his affection. In fact, he observed that any attempts at affection, no matter how small or discreet, even in the privacy of their quarters, were met with a twitch in the younger captain’s eye.

He did not suffer the rejection alone. James hated to have to deny Francis and send him away, especially after being the one to seduce him. How must his trusted friend have felt to be spirited away by James, only to be cast aside like rubbish?

God, what a mess he was. Before the Franklin expedition, his stomach had been flat, toned, with no give. He was strong of limb and bearing, known, even commended, for the leagues he had walked. He was the peak of human vitality, at least before scurvy wreaked havoc on him and reduced him to a simpering corpse. In his recovery he had even thrilled at the filling of his form, the return to strength and vigor until he could wear his trousers without the embarrassing chance of them falling off. Now he had gained with interest, and the waistband of his trousers were nearly cutting into him. The severity of the pinch was relentless, but he forced himself to ignore it as he continued to get ready for the evening.

James did not know why he was even tagging along with his friend to dinner, as he would only make a vulgar display of himself. But what else could he do, hide away from the world and hope he would somehow be forgotten?

Outside his bedroom window he could hear the cab arriving, Francis riding within, no doubt. James hurried with his waistcoat buttons – holding in his breath as he did so – and then clumsily tied his cravat. He still could not shake the feeling that he had let so many people down. His thoughts scanned through examples in rapid succession: those in his long career who called him a friend – as well as those he genuinely believed to be so; his beloved aunt and uncle; his sweet brother and kind sister-in-law…

His father.

He hated that man, that slovenly fool whose choice to keep his surname to himself was one of the few gifts granted to his bastard son. The other gift was his death shortly before the departure of the Erebus and the Terror, news James had thought of as a perverse good omen at the time, God forgive him. No one could have taken his father’s word as valuable, not in decades. And yet the thought of what Sir James Gambier might have said if he saw James in this state…

He was supposed to be better than that damnable bastard. He was supposed to have proved him wrong.

Even Francis’ presence could not drag him from his inner diatribe.

“Oh good, you’re ready,” the older man said as he entered the room. “I’ve heard they’re serving chocolate mousse tonight.”

“I’d rather not go,” James heard himself blurt out. Francis stopped in his tracks, staring.

“Shall we send someone out to retrieve it?” he suggested. “We could eat here.”

“No, thank you,” James replied, refusing to look up from his gloved hands.

“Why, for heaven’s sake?”

 _Because I’m ashamed of my appearance and myself_ , he was tempted to say. But the words stuck in his throat. “I-I’m sorry, I just don’t want to.”

He cringed at the exasperated sigh which followed. When he finally looked up at Francis, the other’s hands were on his hips and he looked ready to shout.

“Have I missed something painfully obvious?” Francis took a step toward him, his tone growing more tense and accusatory as he spoke. “We enjoy each other’s company, do we not? I certainly enjoy yours, do you not enjoy mine?”

James frowned at him, annoyed to have his fondness for the other man questioned, and for a brief moment he found his voice again.

“Don’t be stupid, of course I do!”

“Then _why_ are you avoiding me?” When he received no answer, Francis was spurred onward. “What we shared on Prince William Island, the trust between us, what I certainly thought had been love, and now our nights are made up of…”

He silenced himself on impulse, dreading the cacophony of words that would have poured out of him without sense or tact. If he was wrong, and their union was never meant to be more than physical, unleashing a tirade of feelings without reason would only make things worse. He took a long breath before continuing.

“Perhaps it is terribly forward of me. But I savor those nights far more than a mere tumble in one another’s beds. Our interludes are… _very_ worth my evenings, my attention. But my reasons for staying ‘til morning run much deeper than that. It’s not a matter of flesh, or agreeable company, or professional reputation.” He took several more paces until he was close enough to James to have struck him. Even if he had still been angry, he couldn’t dare, not towards James.

“I respect you, as a friend, as a colleague and fellow captain. I promise, I respect you as a man. And I believe – I _know_ – I love you.”

James remained silent, but his face revealed everything. He swallowed an imagined lump caught in his throat, biting the inside of his cheek. By now Francis knew that look very well. He cleared his throat, forbidding his own tears.

“And in the past week, it only just occurred to me that I should’ve asked if you felt the same way. My feelings went unnoticed even by myself until I suspected your evading, and I’m sorry for that.”

James had no reply: he had not noticed. Was that not the biggest joke of their circumstances? James wanted to tell him a fault of vigilance was the very reason for his behavior, but he could not speak, not when he felt so ashamed, when Francis was laying his heart open in front of him.

“I should have asked you. If I have overstepped my bounds, if I have inconvenienced you, I swear it was never my intent.”

Francis did not deserve this. He deserved someone else, not someone with such a slippery hold of his own emotions. Briefly Francis lifted a hand, about to caress James’ cheek, but he thought better of it, pulled away, and sighed.

“Forgive me,” he said, and walked out of the bedroom, leaving James alone.

The quiet of the room nearly hurt. James took a step forward, hesitated, and swallowed back a sob before hurrying after.

Francis had just opened the front door and was about to step out, but his view of the carriage was replaced by that of a hand slamming the door shut. He turned to see James’ dark eyes glittering with tears before a pair of hands took him by the face and drew him into a passionate, desperate kiss. Francis could barely think, his focus purely on mouth against his, the hands gripping him, the tears leaving his lover’s face and rolling down his own cheeks. He bent his arms until he could feel cloth, and he immediately took James in a tight grip. The kiss was broken as James pulled away to speak.

“There’s nothing to forgive, you idiot.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I love you too. More than anything.”

Neither spoke, arms encircling one another and foreheads joined. For a long moment the only sound shared between them was their breathing. Francis nuzzled the other man’s cheek, like a loyal dog curious of its master’s sorrow.

“Will you not tell me what weighs so heavy on your mind?”

James wanted to tell him, just let go of everything he had battened down in his heart. But he knew the discussion would take time, too much time. Wiping his eyes, he reopened the door, indicating the waiting cab.

“It can wait until tonight.”

Francis nodded. He was patient. He could wait.

*

The carriage ride was quiet, but both captains enjoyed the silence. They sat next to one another, their hands interlocked on James’ knee, a subtle attempt to comfort one another. For James, it only helped a fraction. His nerves frayed again when they were brought to their table in the Keystone. Francis’ brow furrowed while he watched James curiously pick around the food on his plate at random

Only one thing for it: change the subject.

“I’ve been considering…” he declared, waiting for James to look up at him. “Perhaps I’ll give up shaving.”

James glanced up at him, staring as though he had grown third eye. “What’s brought this on?”

“Things change,” he shrugged, earning an annoyed frown from his companion. “Besides… you’ve shown how much you appreciate the texture of my stubble tickling your skin.”

Fumbling with his fork, James nearly sent it off the table.

“Captain Crozier, how you talk…!” he hissed, suddenly glad the Keystone was one of the noisier places they had dined. Francis grinned at the use of his title. James had not addressed him in such a way for a long time. If he remembered correctly, the last time it was used, James had been very cross with him.

As he humored Francis’ ramblings of personal grooming, James found himself unable to finish his meal. Perhaps he was imagining things, but he already felt full halfway through his first course. The pinch of his breeches around his stomach not only hurt but brought images to mind awful enough to make him blush. He did not have to look at himself to know his middle must have been spilling fat around the fastenings, bulging out even more so when he was seated and hunched over his plate like a greedy child.

 _Greedy child_ , he heard in Sir Gambier’s voice, a voice he only heard a handful of times in his life, but piercing his memory nonetheless.

At least he had the coat and waistcoat hiding his middle, for now anyway.

He put down his knife and fork, patting his lips with a napkin.

“Frightfully sorry,” he muttered as he scooted back his chair. “Though I would rather we waited until returning home, I confess I am in need of a lavatory.”

“Are you unwell, James?” Francis asked as they both stood up.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” the younger man replied, already walking off in search of a member of staff.

No sooner did James see a waiter at the far end of the room than a throng of prospective diners poured into the space from outside. The new customers were a loud, raucous lot, their cheeks already red from drinking, and James found himself wondering where the hell Francis had gotten the idea to dine in this frenzied place.

Francis attempted to follow his friend through the chaotic din, every few seconds losing him amidst the bodies and then sighting him once more. It would have been comical if he was not so concerned for the other’s wellbeing. The picture did not seem right at all. Were he in the mood for it, James could easily welcome a rowdy celebration. He could welcome any social setting. Thus it was terribly odd for him to look so uncomfortable, so adrift in the crowd. He kept his gaze to the floor, uninterested in engaging with any around him, and he navigated the group as though he were trudging through the bank of the Thames while trying not to touch anything foul.

Just as he reached the other side of the room, someone from the party knocked into James. The inebriated lout was oblivious to anything in his path and he sent an accidental elbow into his obstacle’s stomach. James winced, as though in pain greater pain than the blow should have rightly given him. Accident or not, Francis set aside manners and pushed through the drunkards with far less gentility. By the time he reunited with James, the waiter had already arrived, apologizing for the uncivilized commotion which had entered not two minutes past.

“My sincerest apologies sir, I assure you these men are not welcome in our establishment. If you wait just a moment, we will have them removed from the premises…”

“That won’t be necessary,” Francis interrupted him. He took one look at James and managed to keep his temper. “We can plainly see what standard of patron frequents this ‘establishment,’ and we are leaving.”

Before either could continue, James spoke up. His voice was soft, barely heard above the din.

“Excuse me, I must…” he walked away before he could finish, his stride quick but rigid. Was he sick?

 _All the more reason we should never eat here again_ , Francis considered.

He lost sight of James at first, but found him not a minute later in the alley the Keystone shared with a shuttered floral shop. Francis was reminded of a similar time over a year ago, when he found James hiding away during a ball to collect himself after confronting one of the regular bores. James leaned back against a wall, stood far enough within the alley that he attracted no further attention. Francis entered and placed a reassuring hand on the younger man’s shoulder with a rueful sigh.

“I’m sorry, James,” he said. “I was so eager to find a place where we had not dined. I should have researched it further.”

“Don’t apologize,” James responded. “It is not the reason I retreated.”

“Then why won’t you look at me?”

James complied and the gentle look in his friend – his lover’s – eyes encouraged him not to turn away. Francis smiled.

“Even if we were to cease our nights together, I thought we were at least close enough to confide in each other as friends.”

James sighed and closed his eyes. "Please, don't do this to me."

Francis shook his head, oblivious to the source of the other’s suffering. "What's happened?"

Sad, brown eyes opened and in the lamplight from the street, James had never looked prettier to Francis.

"It's silly.” He considered, went on. “But it's equally silly for me to be so far-gone."

A pain was beginning to creep into Francis’ head as though he had spent the night drinking. “Please. Tell me. Stop fiddling about."

James could not bear looking at Francis anymore, frightened of whatever reaction his confession might produce, so he turned his head before he spoke.

"I've lost control. I've indulged far too much. It’s been going on for over a week.” Grimacing, he gestured at his midsection, struggling to keep his voice from shaking. “And now I'm about to explode out of my own clothes."

His eye twitched and Francis made a connection. That peculiar expression throughout the week, the wince when he had tried to embrace James, it had not been annoyance.

This silly, fretful, _beautiful_ man…

Francis softened his resolve, and he squeezed his friend’s shoulder, giving it the slightest nudge to get James’ attention.

“Let’s go home.” He smiled.

James did not ask whose home in particular. He did not care. As long as he was away from this god-awful place, he could have been taken anywhere, eagerly. He nodded, and Francis returned to the street and waved for a carriage.


	5. 5

Captain Fitzjames’ disclosure had been deeply disconcerting, but Francis had to concede that it caused him some level of relief. Had he a choice he would rather James not be miserable at all, but at least this was something manageable, something he could and would without hesitation help to set right. Moreover, his confession brought new light to clues which Francis had thought were gestures of rejection. James had not been rejecting Francis, but himself.

James was quiet even when they reached his bedroom, his gloomy expression lit by candles. Doffing his own jacket, Francis proceeded to help James out of his in kind. Gloves were next, then cravats. He paused when he began to reach for buttons to undo, opting instead to kneel in front of his melancholy friend.

“May I see?” He asked, elaborating when he received a furrowed brow in reply. “To examine. Remember what I said before we left the house? I meant it. Let me help.”

Scrutinizing the bright blue eyes and seeing nothing but indisputable love, James considered, averted his gaze, and then outright turned his head, refusing to see so much as his friend’s reaction to the inevitable. _Damn him._

Encouraged by a nod of the head, Francis unbuttoned the waistcoat, parted it, and was astounded at what greeted him. He rested his hands on James’ hips and took in the abundant view, stared at the soft flesh billowing from the edge of the trousers. Though not yet at risk for breaking, the buttons of his shirtsleeves strained from the ample presence of his new form. How had James been going through so many evenings with such painfully undersized clothing without complaint? When Francis did not continue his supposed examination, James could take no more of the dreadful waiting and unbuttoned the placket of his shirt. Taking a breath and sucking in his stomach, he then attempted to unfasten the fly of his trousers in a gentle manner, jaw set and eyes dark. Unfortunately for him, he fumbled over the buttons as though about to faint. Francis clasped his hands over James’ own, stopping him.

“Relax, I’ll do it,” he said, smiling.

How on Earth did this cynical, miserable curmudgeon manage to look so reassuring? Defeated, James let out his breath and his belly resumed its previous shape. Undoing the buttons, Francis parted both the fly and the shirt’s halves. Despite the skin being unbroken, he nearly winced at the angry red lines, vivid like wounds. The sight reminded him of boiled ham cut with a butcher’s wire.

His head still turned away, James squeezed his eyes shut, his voice worryingly dull.

“I’m disgusting. Repellant.”

“Oh, James…” Francis whispered, his fingertips feather-light against the red marks. He gently kissed them, though when he looked up once more he was sad to see the misery on his lover’s face, and the gnawing of the inside of his cheek.

“If only I’d known earlier,” he said between kisses. “Realized that something was wrong… I wish you’d felt able to tell me.”

James would not speak, but he gripped at the edge of a nearby table as though steadying himself for despair. His Adam’s apple bobbed and he looked up to the ceiling. It was terribly evident he was trying his damnedest not to weep.

Steadily shedding the layer of clothes off of the younger man, Francis explored further with his touch. Lead and scurvy showed James no quarter out in the Arctic, this much was true, but the scars which proved his trials also proved his survival. The scars from long past endeavors had reopened and left newer, uglier marks, but Francis secretly loved them and always had.

“You accept these, do you not?” he asked, his callused hands brushing against the pale skin and lingering on the scars. “To think them indicative of some great failing of character is unfounded. Could you perhaps do the same for a few extra kilograms as well?”

When he was given no reply, he continued. “In the meantime, we could look to getting you newly tailored clothing.” He smirked up at the other. “… maybe beyond your present measurements, give yourself room to grow.”

He had hoped to compel a laugh out of James, but received only a grimace. “You needn’t be so condescending.”

“I tell you, James, I do not say this out of pity, never in a thousand years.” Francis stood, stepping back to view James in his entirety. “You’ve never been disgusting. In fact you don’t even look changed. I wouldn’t have noticed any difference, not even when you’re naked.”

James nodded, though the brisk nature of the nod suggested not agreement but the desire for the subject to be dismissed. The urge to weep had long passed in him, and he folded his arms, though he barely obscured himself.

“I would not know. But what I do know is this: I must cease this endless circle of feeling sorry for myself.”

Francis stepped closer and took James’ shoulders in his hands, squeezing. “Agreed. And if you need my assistance, I shall provide it gladly.”

“Shall we retire now?” James asked. “Perhaps sleep will do us some good.”

His trusted friend smiled broadly, rubbing a thumb against a shoulder. “I know what else might.”

Finally James laughed, a soft sound but a laugh nonetheless. He yielded to the kiss Francis bid him. He wanted nothing more than to devote all his attention to the warmth and softness of his lover’s mouth. Had he the will, he would have cast out all else in the world until only he and Francis remained.

“Sit down,” Francis commanded him when he broke the kiss. “I’ll take care of you tonight.”

Yanking away his unbuttoned articles, James did as told, watching the other do the same. He realized just how much he enjoyed Francis’ own body. The Irish complexion was a wonder to behold, especially when scars presented so visibly on it. Though physically fit from a life of sailing, Francis’ figure betrayed his age. His skin was no longer firm around the muscle, and his belly was soft. James envied the man’s lack of shame over his physique. He wished he could let go of his just as easily.

Approaching the bedside fully nude, Francis did his own admiring. Regarding the visible differences in his friend’s figure, he was correct when it came to standing upright. That said, the change was obvious when James was seated as he was presently, though Francis would not mention this, not tonight. He personally found the sight charming, but James would likely not take the endearment to heart.

James scooted himself back onto the bed as Francis nuzzled and stroked him. As rough hands teased over his nipples, he automatically arched his back, then shrank away just as quickly. Francis of course noticed and nudged at him with his nose.

“If only I could enjoy your touch without thinking of the excess you must be feeling.”

Francis chuckled, though he meant no offense. “To hear you speak, one would assume you’d reached the size of our dear, departed John Franklin.”

James grimaced. “Were that to occur, I would hang myself.”

Francis’ chuckle became a laugh and he kissed the other’s lips to silence him. Spreading his legs, James moaned into the kiss and embraced Francis the moment his lover propped the two of them up with his arms. Already Francis was bucking his hips into James’ groin as though he might enter him without preparation or oil. He pressed James’ hard sex downward with his palm, cupping the erection and drawing out a sharp moan. James released his hold on Francis and fell back against the bed, ready for him, so ready for whatever he would be given…

The unfortunate exception occurred when the hand on his groin traveled upward and pressed on his belly, and his stomach twitched inward as he winced. His moan became a whimper and Francis’ heart sank at the rejection.

“Sorry,” he whispered, hoping he had not spoiled the moment. James was tempted to apologize as well. He wanted nothing more than to end this evening with something wonderful for the both of them, but he could not manage this shame long enough to give Francis everything he wanted. Averting his gaze, he guided the hand upward, flattening the fingers against a hardening nipple.

“Please,” he said, managing a smile. “Humor me?”

Francis looked sad at first, but returned the smile and nodded. Just this once. Acceptance would come in time, as much time as needed, so he obeyed the request. He hoped helping James to embrace this new body would be easy, at least for James’ sake. He took a space on the bed at the younger man’s side and continued to kiss him, actively avoiding places on James’ body that he so eagerly wanted to investigate and enjoy. He loved this supposed “excess”, but he understood the reason behind James’ inward humiliation. Part of Francis wished Sir Gambier was still alive so that he could give him a punch in the teeth. Perhaps also a swift kick or two in the kidneys…

He heard James giggle and realized he was growling more than moaning. He grinned and nibbled at the beautiful face he was so glad to see every morning when they woke side by side. His mouth went further downward until he reached the exposed and welcoming throat. He felt the Adam’s apple bobbing again, this time out of ecstasy, and smiled into the skin before reaching for the oil on the bedside table. James spread his legs again, ready for those hands to delve deeper than the skin.

*

Their union served its base purpose, but it could have been a sight better. Francis was curled up against James, already asleep. His enthusiasm was certainly encouraging, but James hesitated to accept the declarations and lovemaking, no matter how genuine they appeared and felt. His thoughts still raced as he lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Even if he were to allow his pathetic predicament to continue – and he really rather wouldn’t – he could not simply move on without thought to changes. He would likely have to think up some reliable remark for his new physique, especially if anyone were to point out his appearance, but he was sure he could make the excuse convincing. But then there would be the observations made by those above his standing, and he was not sure he could take much of that. And damn him, he had so damn many clothes to replace…

It would not do. If changes were to happen, they would be under his command.


	6. 6.

James thought his spirits would improve after the night of the shameful discovery, what with his new plan and the support promised to him no matter what. Come morning when he prepared himself for the day and dressed himself in clothes still too tight for his midsection however, he was crestfallen. If only autumn were soon arriving, but unluckily for him the year was only halfway through summer. He could only wear so many pieces and layers before swooning from the heat. God… his instinct was still to pity himself, even after hearing Francis’ declaration.

Francis – dear Francis. Despite the captain accepting, even approving the change, James thought it a most unwelcome change nonetheless. He hated to look at it. He hated that it limited his clothing options, would likely require an entire new wardrobe. He hated that it would not go away. And now he found himself scrutinizing his face as he dressed in front of the mirror every morning. Though his skin had improved – thank heavens – since his long past bout with scurvy, a nagging thought had invaded him concerning the look of his neck as framed by the high collars of his clothing. He could swear he was developing an extra chin.

_Christ, jowls would be next._

Things only exacerbated a week later when he had to get ready for a banquet hosted by an old acquaintance. He was quite done with dinners and balls and other gatherings requiring his presence for the mere reason of him being relevant to the interests of the Admiralty and high society. He was surprised to still be invited regularly, especially when he, Francis, and Mr. Peeves were still resolutely pursuing the matter of the tins. But Edward Fanshawe seemed to like James for whatever reason, no matter his endeavors. As such, declining the invitation would have been most hurtful.

At least the gala required guests in service to attend in their uniforms. He looked at himself in his full length mirror, brushing off imaginary dust and smoothing over invisible wrinkles. Complete with the closed jacket, it would be manageable. He could not decide if the belt made the surrounding flesh more noticeable or if he was imagining things, and damn it he would not ask Francis. He knew what Francis would say, that he looked handsome and smart as ever. Sighing, he turned from his mirror and continued dressing.

Just when he could not imagine his situation getting any worse, he proved himself wrong. Taking a seat, he curled forward to pull on a boot when a sudden and impactful popping sound was both heard and felt, surprising him. The button which burst from his trousers bounced off of the nearby armoire, coming to rest on the floor in front of him. Only when it had stopped did James realize he was holding his breath, disbelieving what just happened.

“Shit.”

*

“Have you not been to the tailor yet, James?”

“No, I have not,” James replied as he sat across from Francis in the cab. His tone made it very clear he was just as annoyed with himself as he was to confess his blunder.

“Don’t worry. We’ll soon get you new slops and you’ll soon be feeling bang on.”

James gave him a patient smile but said nothing. Francis never thought he would find himself missing the former Erebus captain’s unendingly yammering voice. It was so strange for James to be so silent, not resorting to some anecdote from his glory days. He could remember that silence back in the Netsilik camp, when James was still so unwell that he did little else but sleep. Francis hoped the former bluster and bravado would return soon. He was beginning to miss the verbose, infuriatingly gregarious James Fitzjames he had come to love years ago on the Erebus and the Terror.

He watched James smooth over various parts of his clothes in as many times as the carriage had run over a stray stone. To Francis, the other man’s view of the weight gain was highly exaggerated. In fact, he chastised himself over not noticing the extra kilograms. Now that he was aware, he loved every new inch, and he wondered if marks would be appearing on the soft, pale skin. He smiled, thinking about how the flesh would now be softer. If only James would allow him to touch it…

James looked out the window of the carriage. Evening began its descent by the time Francis had arrived at James’ home, and as they rode to the Fanshawe residence a jaundiced full moon illuminated the roads, its color reminding James of his own deteriorating state.

If only the cut of his waistcoat were longer. He knew when he would be sitting the flesh would be bowing outward where the vest ended. He cursed himself for delaying an appointment to the tailor; why on God’s green earth had he put it off?

“You know, if you wish it, we could turn around,” Francis stated. “We don’t have to go.”

“Someone as sociable as myself, I’ve already hidden away far too long. And if I don’t attend now, I worry I’ll grow more fearful of each invitation.”

Francis raised an eyebrow at the explanation. “As you see fit, my dear.”

James examined the other’s face for mocking or condescension but found none. He silently reprimanded himself for doubting his friend and lover, but years of conditioned self-contempt were difficult to overcome.

… if he could just get out of the damn cab without bursting his _damn_ buttons.

Of all parties to attend as his return to society, James had picked an awful one. It seemed all but the queen herself was in turnout, the more recognizable guests including but not limited to James Ross and Sir John Ross, as well as the Barrows, father and son. But he swore to endure the evening. Not only was this to steel himself and his cantankerous friend to future events, but to invite more guests to a gathering of their own. The presentation they were to orchestrate with Peeves would be within four days. James had worked under pressure in climbing the ladder – professional and social – countless times in his younger years, but lately his proficiency was as dull as a soup spoon.

Mere seconds after entering the sitting room, a man approached them in an eager gait. His face looked to be of someone in his mid thirties, but his bearing seemed much older, more sure and confident. James hoped some of that confidence would carry over to him like pollen.

“James bloody Fitzjames,” the man declared with a smile, immediately taking James’ hand. “And Captain no less!”

Edward Fanshawe was enthusiastic but not boisterous. His movement betrayed vigor most useful in a naval career, and James was not alone in predicting the young man would never retire from the sea so long as he drew breath.

James shook his hand and gestured to Francis. “Edward, this is Captain Francis Crozier."

“Ah, yes,” Fanshawe interjected, recognition lighting up his features. “It is _Sir_ Francis Crozier now, is it not?”

“Captain will do fine,” Francis replied, curt but hoping he sounded modest.

James continued, undaunted. “Francis this is Captain Edward Gennys Fanshawe…”

“Soon to be Admiral, I might add,” Fanshawe chimed in. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if I too were to be knighted very soon.”

“As you can see, this service is possessed of one man more ambitious than I to climb the ladder and claim titles. I could almost hate him.”

“Spare us the lies, James. You adore me. Everyone does.”

James smirked at him. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“I see now why the two of you get along,” Francis stepped in. “You’re exactly alike.”

A moment of quiet passed before Fanshawe threw his head back and laughed. Francis was not sure if he should be relieved at his acceptance or dreading the oncoming long talk.

“Now it all makes sense,” Fanshawe declared. “It’s no wonder you survived the expedition with this stalwart superior at your side.”

“Indeed,” James replied. “Without him I would have been lost to the ice.” He smiled genuinely at Francis, who allowed the banter. In years past Francis did not put much faith into personal loyalty, knowing the ways of the world, but if he could name anyone to act as his safeguard, he knew that name would be James Fitzjames.

“As a colleague and friend of Captain Fitzjames,” Fanshawe addressed Francis, ignoring the eye roll from James, “I thank and commend you, Captain Crozier. Though I dare say he could still out-walk me…”

“My dear Edward,” James said. “When you have orders from a superior, a tortoise could out-walk you.”

Though barely involved in the conversation, Francis was glad to see James so at ease in a social setting, finally after so long. It felt natural. His wishes for James to fall back into his old routine left him continuing the talk with Fanshawe, though he knew he could manage when he realized the discussion of sailing was preferable to old war stories. While Francis indulged the young captain with talk of Fanshawe’s nearing voyage on a vessel christened the Daphne, James made his way through the other guests, engaging in small talk as he went.

James’ mingling led him to a table of refreshments. Only drink could be seen, much to his relief, and he silently debated between water and spirits heard someone approach and turned to see a somewhat dyspeptic Sir John Barrow.

“Looking forward to your voyage, young Mr. Fitzjames?”

“Oh, yes,” he replied, tracing the rim of his glass with his index finger. “I’ve been informed another ship has been added: the St. Médard.”

“Hm,” the old man grunted. Doubt clouded his eyes. “Perhaps it will be enough to put an end to your goings-on, regarding the Goldner incident.”

James sighed, steeling himself for the oncoming argument. “Not at all.”

“I can’t believe you’re still pursuing it,” Barrow grumbled as James turned away to peruse the table. “It’s a fool’s errand, you know, exposing the truth. Everyone already knows about the lead in the tins.”

“If everyone knows about Stephan Goldner, they deserve to know why the Admiralty allowed business with him, and not from some hackneyed excused inflamed by British xenophobia.” James huffed, considering filling his glass with scotch. “You know, it astounds me, if any of these parochial malcontents took the minimal effort to look beyond their front steps…”

“Stephan Goldner is not the truth to which I refer,” Barrow interrupted his rambling. “You are young and trusting, but surely you are not naïve enough to think the Admiralty will stand by while you rattle their cages.”

James refused to turn and face the old man, but he could feel him getting closer, until Barrow’s voice was at his side.

“You were lucky enough for your lineage to be embraced by your peers. Do you want to destroy your reputation? Your career? It would be a shame to have come all this way, survived the bloody Arctic, just to lose everything over some Jew-soldered cans.”

James’ heart was pounding. Perhaps a year ago he could have thought of a clever retort, but he was already battling his insecurity on top of anticipating this very lecture to the public. His throat dry, he swallowed and grabbed for the scotch, but hesitated to pour it. If he was not careful he would find himself much in the way Francis had been only last year.

“I got where I am today from more than just luck, Sir John. Rest assured, I understand the consequences,” a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “But I’m also fond of a challenge.”

“As long as you know the risk, my boy…” he trailed off, giving James an artificial smile before walking away.

 _Hang it._ James poured the scotch.

By the time the talk between Francis and Fanshawe had run out of momentum James had delved into a small crowd of old colleagues, not downright drunk but clearly feeling the thrill. At first Francis was content to watch his friend in his element, wondering if this was a window into James’s younger years. He knew of a few high points (and low) as told by James himself, all far more entertaining than the war stories, and seeing the younger man smile so easily made tonight’s gala a little less grating on Francis’ nerves. He stepped closer, making out more and more of the commotion.

“You should have seen it, he broke a chair!” Franshawe was saying over the other voices.

James laughed. “Good heavens, do you remember the sight?”

“Do you think you can still do it?” someone else was asking him.

Fanshawe nudged James in the ribs excitedly. “Yes, James, show us that strength!” Bashfully chuckling, James hesitated, but enough urging from his fellows finally made him accede. In no time, someone had found a chair. James gave the small crowd a sly grin as he firmly placed his hands on the backrest.

“Stand back, I shan’t take accountability for any grazed faces!”

The men around him waited for the collision with bated breath as he lifted the chair by its backrest, his progress deliberately slow to let tension build.

“My apologies for the furniture, Edward,” he said. “And the floor for that matter.” And he immediately tensed his entire being as he brought the chair to its peak for maximum impact.

Even Francis could not help but anticipate the ludicrous destruction about to unfold, but he joined the rest of the men in surprised confusion when James cut the act short almost immediately after beginning the chair’s descent. He instinctively stepped forward in concern in response to the shudder which seized James, who all but dropped the chair at his side. The former Terror captain knew nothing of what went on before their meeting that evening, when a sound James had heard made itself known for a second time. Then a third.

The scene grew distressingly quiet. James gazed down at the floor, his face white as a sheet as he watched with the closest around him: the first button had popped free, the force of which being enough to release a second. They dropped from under his uniform jacket and bounced off into a forest of legs.

Fanshawe chuckled, an attempt to lighten the mood on his part, but a horrible sound to James. “Oh dear. First the tins and now the uniforms, wouldn’t you say, sir?”

James could not speak. His heart was beating at a nearly painful rate and he could feel a sudden heat flushing his entire face. A hand on his shoulder gave him a start as he turned to see Francis at his side.

“Come away, dearest,” he said in a voice low enough for only James to hear him. James hesitated, frozen to the spot with his silent distress, and finally followed Francis like a penitent child being led to a caning. They passed through the curious crowds and left the ballroom while young John awkwardly asked for help to find the buttons.

Fortunately for the two captains, their search for a private place did not take long, as they found a tiny staircase leading to the servants’ quarters. James felt his heartbeat slow, though only slightly. He was surprised his damn trousers had not fallen around his knees during the walk, but perhaps he was corpulent enough now for them to cling against his flesh. True, reason had given way to exaggeration, but presently he did not care. He wanted to leave, we wanted to disappear, even die if necessary, theatrics be damned.

“James, you needn’t be upset,” Francis softly told him, placing a gentle hand on the younger man’s arm. “Can’t you look at me, at least?”

“I can’t stay,” James replied, seemingly unhearing. “If you wish to, that’s fine, but I must leave.”

Francis grimaced. James must have been thoroughly out of sorts to assume his friend would willingly stay here, with so many people.

“It’s fine, dear,” he insisted. “We may leave, but I assure you, you needn’t fear what happened out…”

“DON’T…” the sudden loud nature of his voice startled Francis into silence. His lip trembled as he continued. “Make me. Go back there.”

James breathed slowly in concentration, but a tear escaped nonetheless. Francis could see it glitter in the candlelight despite James’ refusal to look at him. He squeezed the James’s arm. He wanted so badly to kiss him here and now, to comfort the both of them. Instead he let go of the younger man’s arm and gently drifted a stray hair from James’ face.

“We shall go. And if anyone wishes us to stay longer, I shall unleash my Irish temper upon them.”

James finally looked at him, eyes glassy and lashes wet. He wanted to smile for Francis, because the dear man was trying so hard to uphold him.

_Because that’s what you can’t do for yourself, isn’t it?_

Blinking away tears, he nodded.

James Ross, ever intuitive and proving once again he could be counted on in dire times, managed to guide his two fellow captains through the hallways to the front door, giving some excuse of James taking ill. If he was curious as to the truth, he was too polite to ask for it at that moment. He said nothing about the awkward way James climbed into the carriage, shuffling into the far corner and refusing to look back at him. With quick thanks from Francis, he sent them back to James’ estate.

Several times during the ride, Francis wanted to speak, but he was unsure of what to say. Would reassurance currently sound hollow to his friend’s ears? Nights such as these, Francis worried. He remembered their time on Prince William Island, the way James was listless in the Netsilik camp, despite his health improving. The well known saying rang clear in his mind, that of dying of a broken heart. He had wondered if despair counted as the same thing. Fortunately returning home to England had lifted his spirits and health, even initiated Francis in their auspicious love affair thanks to his restored confidence. And now here they were again.

Francis stayed the night but remained at the far end of the bed, perceiving James’ curled up position as need of space. James’ sleep was light and he awoke exhausted the following morning, eyes framed in dark circles as he bid Francis goodbye for the day. Before opening the door, they shared a brief, chaste kiss. James could not bring himself to indulge in anything more intimate.

He sat down with a cup of lukewarm tea and wondered what his peers and colleagues would think to see him now, so miserable and childish after his time in the Arctic, when it was agony to even move. He could barely remember anything of Gambier and yet he could hear an imagined voice, judgmental and condemning.

Dismissive.

_Needy child. Greedy little pig. Worthless little boy. Will you never be pleased?_

He wanted to shout at the long dead voice to shut up. Were he stronger willed he could banish them away forever. But he was not stronger willed, at least not at present. What he would have given for an ounce of that confidence back, like how he was before the expedition. Hell, his resolve had been lost so recently that he wondered if Francis would have ever fallen for him months before now. Over a year before, when he indulged his fellows’ need for theatre with a returning rendition of the queen, now _that_ had been confidence.

Thinking of the performance, however, did give him an idea.

His energy renewed, James hurried upstairs to search his bedroom. His memory did not dictate throwing it out and sure enough after digging through the wardrobe he finally found it. Had he never performed in Chrononhotonthologos, he likely would not have owned a corset. After all, he had never needed one otherwise. He felt himself relax a bit as he drifted his fingertips over the corset’s surface, feeling the delicate stitches and firm boning. His weight gain still was not severe enough to have outgrown this, and in no time the cinching would reverse the process.

 _This_. This was ideal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I totally forgot the knighthood I had been planning in the continuity. Fixed it.


End file.
